


Strut and Pummel

by monchy



Category: Glee
Genre: Boys in Skirts, Drag Queens, Klaine Break-Up, M/M, but mostly grant gustin's legs, i'm writing this because of reasons, post s5
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-08 13:16:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3210512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monchy/pseuds/monchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many things Kurt would have expected from his friendship with Elliott, including being taken to a bar full of drag queens. Finding Sebastian Smythe there and wearing a dress? Well, not so much.</p><p>Or, in which Sebastian makes a particularly hard effort towards being contrary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sebastian was a rebellious child, or so his mother always told him. She always said he seemed to be making a particularly hard effort towards being contrary, as if the idea of following a previously settled pattern forced his character in the opposite direction. Father always said he was only grasping at threads of attention.

It’s not like he’d meant to be that way, at least not as a child. Age had only aggravated the condition, of course, turning Sebastian into the epitome of villainous adolescent.

“You were just an asshole,” Jeff would tell him. “Like, an honest asshole, upfront about it. So at least you had that going for you.”

“Maybe it’s a genetic condition,” Nick would argue back.

Sebastian didn’t think about it, honestly, merely following his natural instincts, which told him to do what he wanted whenever he wanted, no matter the consequences. The consequences had caught up with him more than once, of course, but he’d become an expert at dealing with them and at ignoring the look of annoyed indifference in his father’s eyes. Mother would scold, of course, but Sebastian had the feeling that she had given up on him somewhere around his sixth birthday, choosing instead to focus on his quieter little sister.

“Well, of course they love me more than you,” Cassie used to say. “When was the last time they caught me blowing a teacher in the school’s bathroom?” She would stick his tongue out at him, cheery and uncaring, knowing that he adored her no matter what.

Truth be told, maybe he  _did_ think about it, if only just the once, the day he walked into  _Pompadour’s_ for the first time.

* * *

 

 

“Kurt’, we’re going to be late! I’m sure you look gorgeous already, so let’s get going!”

Kurt cracks a smile at the impatience in Elliott’s tone, and does his best at being quick while choosing the proper scarf. He appraises his choices, and on instinct, goes with the red.

“I prefer the purple one,” is what Blaine tells him as he’s working it under his shirt, the soft fabric settling just tightly enough around his neck.

Kurt turns to him, looking at the way he’s mindlessly perusing the latest  _Vogue_ issue, turning the pages without seemingly paying any real attention to them. He’s full on pouting mode, too, doing that silently aggravated routine that gets on Kurt’s nerves every single time. Kurt’s hands twitch over the fabric of his scarf, but he forces a smile.

“I told you to come with us tonight, didn’t I?” Kurt questions, knowing that there’s annoyed accusation in his voice. “It’s not my fault you don’t like my friends, no need to be pissy.”

Blaine blinks slowly, looking up at him immediately. His hands stay still over the magazine, but he smiles. “I like your friends, Kurt; I just prefer the purple scarf, God! You’re so sensitive.”

Kurt doesn’t answer, instead waiting for the sweet concession that it’s bound to come. Blaine doesn’t disappoint, covering his last statement with a false, quiet laugh, and saying:

“But you look cute in everything.”

It’s the way it goes these days, a pull and push of accusations and concessions that make Kurt dizzy. He wants to call Blaine on it, but he’s not sure he’s not to blame for the guilt that Blaine seems to want to push onto him. His fiancé is going to be spending the night at home in old sweatpants while he goes out with his friends, after all, and Kurt wonders if that isn’t some breach of an unwritten contract. Then again, it’s not like Blaine hasn’t been invited.

Kurt wants to sigh, and maybe bring up this particular subject in conversation, so they can be honest about whatever’s been going on between them lately. They’re supposed to be happy, after all, but Kurt doesn’t remember the last time they had fun together. It’s late, though, Dani and Elliott are waiting for him, and he feels like getting out of the apartment.

As if on cue, Elliott’s voice travels all the way from the door in an exasperated exclamation. “Kurt,  _come on!_ ”

“Just a minute!” he yells back.

He stills himself, and with a smile, walks towards the bed and presses a knee to the mattress. It sinks under his weight, and Blaine seems to move towards him as if an unstoppable force is pulling him in his direction. They kiss, soft and short, and Kurt spends a quiet moment looking into Blaine’s eyes.

“I love you,” he says.

Blaine hastens to answer, “Yeah, me too.” His eyes are looking down, though, and Kurt can almost taste the routine of the words in the space between them. He reaches up, touches his fingers to Blaine’s cheek for a brief interlude and then moves away, waving back one last time before stepping through the curtain and out of the bedroom.

“About time,” Elliott tells him the second he spots him. “Let’s go, come on.”

Kurt rolls his eyes, but smiles at both him and Dani sincerely. “Yes, yes, come on.”

They take the subway to the unknown place Elliott’s been telling them about for weeks. It’s called  _Pompadour’s_ , and if the name wasn’t warning enough, the fact that Elliott is in full glittery regalia tonight definitely is. Whatever the case, Kurt loves going out with both Elliott and Dani, and is constantly surprised by the easy flow of their friendship. It was never like this with anyone at home, or even with Rachel once they were in New York, and he wonders if this is a sign of maturity.

He misses Rachel, though, even her over the top craziness and her sudden bouts of insurmountable trouble that seemed like nothing more than childish caprices. L.A. is doing well by her, though, so Kurt can hardly keep reminding her how her dream had always been Broadway, and not some cheap TV show. Last time they had spoken on the phone, he had reminded her of their trip to New York during Nationals on junior year, and she had dismissed him like singing in that Broadway stage together had meant nothing.

“Kurt! Here I am, regaling you with my girl problems, and you’re spacing out on me!”

Kurt’s attention moves to Dani once he hears her, and he smiles at the way she’s leaning up, even standing on her tiptoes, as if trying to reach his face. She’s smiling too, and Kurt feels like reaching out and squeezing her hand. Instead, he merely keeps looking at her and says, “You changed your hair; I like the new color.”

“Yes, blue was too unprofessional, have to be more serious now.”

Both Elliott and Kurt crack a smile, looking at the mane of dark pink hair tied at the back of Dani’s head. Professional, indeed.

“Anyway, tell me about your girl problems.”

Dani rolls her eyes, and after apologizing to Elliott for repeating her stories, she starts telling Kurt about this girl she’s giving guitar lessons to, who has a boyfriend but still pulls Dani into dirty make-out sessions whenever no one’s looking. The three of them commiserate, talking about how that kind of people are never a good choice, saying how this night out is going to take Dani out of her funk.

When they walk out of the subway, the three of them together, Kurt’s already breathing better. It feels good to have new friends, people that aren’t tied down to the crazy back story of his Glee Club days, and even if he hated the hurt that came with it, he’s a little bit glad that Dani’s and Santana’s thing didn’t work out after all. Walking with them down the street, with the heat of summer nights on his face, he can almost forget about Rachel’s dismisiveness and Blaine’s passive aggressive-ness.

Two blocks away from the subway, they reach _Pompadour’s._ Kurt spies bright green neon lights spelling the name, as well as some tacky lighted sign of a man in a nice, dapper suit turning into a well-dressed girl and back again in a continuous loop of blue and pink.

“Seriously, Elliott?” Kurt says with a groan.

“What? Don’t you like drag queens? The boys here are really pretty, and my friend Kiki’s getting us free drinks!”

“Kiki?” Dani questions.

Elliott smiles almost maniacally, looking otherworldly with the black make-up around his eyes and the top hat he’s wearing. “Anthony by day, Kiki by night. She’s fabulous! Now come on, let’s go.”

Surprisingly enough,  _Pompadour’s_ is not so bad. Well, or maybe it is but manages to pull it off, Kurt can’t be sure. The thing is, it’s so purposefully tacky that it manages an air of charm, the bright neon lights, velvet curtains and random objects hanging from the wall giving the place a carelessly thoughtful air, like someone styling their hair to look messy. No chair or table matches another one and old rugs turn up suddenly, as if trying to fill empty floor spaces, managing to make the thumping sound coming from the speakers feel warmly grounded. Despite himself, Kurt loves it immediately.

“Aha, didn’t I tell you?” Elliott says, smiling smugly and knocking his elbow against Kurt’s arm as soon as they’re sitting down in differently shaped chairs around a small, round table that reminds Kurt of old English houses.

Kurt doesn’t say anything, instead sticking his tongue out at Elliott and smiling when Dani laughs next to him, that throaty, joyous sound he likes so much. Kurt’s about to say something when a glass filled with a deep green liquid is placed right in front of him, a hand topped with red nails and clad in a mesh fingerless glove leaving it behind before placing three more on the table.

“We call this one  _Alien Orgasm_ ,” the owner of the hand says, “you  _will_ love it.”

“Kiki!” Elliott exclaims.

Kurt blinks his eyes up, only to see a tall, broad figure hunching down to hug the life out of Elliott. Elliott’s hat gets knocked down, and those wonderful hands smooth his hair before Elliott can complain and bat them away.

“Oh not the hair, not the hair, alright. How are you, my love?”

Elliott smiles, bigger and brighter than Kurt’s ever seen, and then tells a short story about the small play he’s gotten a part in, some crazy, artful little thing written and produced by students and that’s only getting two nights at what has to be the dingiest stage in all of New York. Elliott’s so proud of it, though, that the way he shines when he talks about it makes everyone around him feel better just by association.

As Elliott talks, Kiki takes a seat at their table, almost immediately taking hold of the fourth drink she’s brought with her. Kurt, rather than drink, takes a minute to look around him, this time not at the place but at the workers, a full arrangement of drag queens in every possible outfit he could ever conceive. He makes a full round, as far as his eyes can reach, seeing the bright fabric, the heels, the make-up and the wigs, only to end up settled back on Kiki. Dani seems to be doing the same, her gaze even more unsubtle than Kurt’s.

Kiki is tall and broad, the muscles of unclothed shoulders hardly those of a woman. Kurt’s never been quite sure if the objective of drag is to imitate whatever concept of femininity society wants to believe is the right one, or if it’s just a different aesthetic all on its own. Whatever the case, Kiki’s shoulders are strong, and they give way to muscled arms covered in long, fingerless gloves. There’s a corset tightly tied to Kiki’s back, green and dark pink laces creating lovely patterns and complementing the full, floor length skirt as well as the curly wig on Kiki’s head. She looks like Scarlet O’Hara on acid, and Kurt loves it.

“Anyway, Kiki,” Elliott says after a minute of motor mouthing his way through a story, and motioning towards both him and Dani, “these are my lovely friends, the other two thirds of One Three Hill, Kurt and Dani.”

“Well look at that, honey, your hair matches mine,” Kiki says the moment she settles her eyes on Dani. Then, turning a critical gaze on Kurt, she says, “And you, you sweetheart, if you’re ever in need of a job, you’d be the prettiest one of us all.”

Kurt feels his cheeks heat up, hopes that the blush isn’t too noticeable. “Oh no, I, well, it’s not really my thing.”

At that, Kiki leans towards him, her elbow sliding over the desk until her face is closer to Kurt’s. Her look is half menacing and half teasing, as if she can’t decide which one she’s going to offer Kurt just yet. “Dislike boys in skirts, do you?”

Kurt lets the breath he was holding fly free, saying, “Oh, no. I wore a kilt to junior prom; fashion has no gender, and gender isn’t really set in stone, is it?”

Kiki laughs at that, throwing her head back and showing a toned, long neck, and looking amused as she mindlessly pats Kurt’s hand on the table. Kurt just smiles, letting his shoulders relax.

“Now, now, drink your cocktail, sweetie,” Kiki prods.

Kurt takes a small sip as ordered, the strong taste of alcohol only hitting his tongue after the sweetened goo has started going down his throat.  _Alien Orgasm_ , indeed.

“Are you sure you can give us free drinks?” Dani questions, taking two long sips that nearly finish her own drink. “This is freaking amazing.”

“Don’t worry honey, the bossy queen that owns this place knows I’m the most fabulous accountant in the city and can’t do without me.” Kiki winks, and then states, “I can get away with anything.”

“You’re an accountant?” Dani questions, and the way her eyes widen seem to express Kurt’s own astonishment. He’s met accountants before – none of them looked like Kiki.

Kiki laughs again, like she can’t stop, and happy lines get drawn around her eyes. She must be somewhere in her forties, but the clear joy in her face makes her look younger, content and full of life.

“I know, right?” she says. “But even us drag queens need someone who knows their numbers. It’s how I met young, lovely Starchild over here, isn’t it?”

Elliott turns back to them, having been busy waving around at some of the waitresses, clearly a fan of this place and well known by almost everyone. He gives them a big, toothy smile, drumming his fingers on the table and cocking his top hat back. He looks more comfortable here than Kurt has ever seen him, and is suddenly reminded of that bigger than life presence he’d been when they’d first met, glittery outfit and Gaga song scaring Kurt so much that he’d turned into his most hateful self.

“Right,” Elliott starts explaining, “Kiki was married to my aunt Martha for a while, used to work together as accountants on the same firm.”

“Wait, you were married?” Dani wonders, leaning forward and pushing her already empty glass away so she can look better at Kiki. Kurt knows she loves these kinds of stories, and that she probably has half a song already written in her head about it; she’s frustratingly talented like that.

“Oh yes,” Kiki mutters, throwing her hand away on the air as if dismissing the idea of it. “Unfortunately, I was one of those late comers, coming out in my mid-thirties and suddenly realizing why sex wasn’t as fun as people said, you know? The fact that I liked your auntie’s underwear more than seeing her in it should have been a clue.”

Elliott laughs and so does Dani, and when Kiki joins them, clearly not thinking about her past as something to be mournful about, Kurt does too. It’s hard for him to understand, of course, with how clear everything had been for him from the beginning, but he feels suddenly grateful for Kiki founding herself and being here to offer them drinks and laughs. It makes Kurt feel free, as if no decision is truly set in stone, as if there’s no such thing as too late to take his life in a different direction.

Suddenly, strangely, Blaine pops into his head; Blaine back at their shared apartment, pouting his way through the night because Kurt chose his friends over him this time. Soon enough, Kiki keeps talking, and Kurt shakes his thoughts away and catches back with the conversation.

“What about you, sweetie, do you like my girls?” Kiki asks, patting Dani’s hand this time over the table.

Dani snorts inelegantly and draws even closer to the table, her neck and face down as if speaking secrets. “I happen to like my girls with no surprises under their skirts.”

“Oh, a full Sapphic goddess,” Kiki counters. “I’ll drink to that, sister.” And so she does. “How about you, Starchild darling?”

“You know my weakness, Kiki,” Elliott confesses, and if the place was bright enough, Kurt would swear that there was a blush on his face. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Elliott blush before, and the idea of his embarrassment makes him want to tease.

“Of course, our beautiful Venus.”

Kurt follows Kiki’s and Elliott’s line of sight until his eyes settle on a tiny, thin figure leaning by the dark wood barstool. She’s so small that Kurt thinks Elliott would dwarf her, especially in the platform boots he’s wearing tonight. Kurt can barely see her face, but he spies her Olivia Newton-John like outfit with one quick look, cringing internally because there’s no way something hasn’t been tucked with the way those leather pants are clinging to her.

“There are some new people, right?” Elliott wonders, calling their attention back to the table and unsuccessfully trying to ignore Kiki making kissy faces his way.

Kiki gives it up after a minute, probably because Elliott’s blush is now perfectly visible and he’s doing a great effort at hiding it by finishing his drink slowly. Kurt’s amused, not having heard anything about Elliott’s crush before, but gives up any form of teasing for now.

“Why, yes,” Kiki answers after a minute, “there’s Martha Rae over there, our too young southern belle.” Kiki points somewhere far away on the opposite side of the place, and Kurt can’t really distinguish who she’s even pointing to among all the frilly fabric there is where he’s looking. “And oh, well, he says we can call him Warbler if he must have a name.”

Kurt’s ears prick at that, the recognizable name stirring something warm high on his chest, even while Elliott raises both eyebrows and wonders, “He?”

“Oh yes, sweetie, that’s just a boy in a skirt, rebelliously challenging his father,” Kiki explains. “Honestly, he’s a badmouthed pretty thing that I can’t help but hopelessly adore.”

“You and the bad boys, Kiki…” Elliott chastises.

“You know me, sweetie. Now, now, where’s my little bird? Ah, look over there.”

Kurt follows Kiki’s pointed finger curiously, stopping on a tall, long figure in a full long skirt much like Kiki’s own, and clearly as uncomfortable wearing heels as anyone looks in here. His back is to them, and Kurt sees freckles on the span of free skin over the boy’s corset, where his shoulder blades seem to be trapped. The wig he’s wearing is some kind of bun, so Kurt can see a long, shapely neck, elegant looking even as the boy twists his hands around a black choker he clearly doesn’t feel comfortable in. When he turns a little, Kurt sees that he isn’t wearing anything breast-shaped, instead letting the corset fall plainly on his chest, the garment somehow pulling focus onto the boy’s collarbones instead, the jutting bones sharp and beautiful, stretching tanned skin deliciously. Kurt blinks at the sight and then, he looks up and catches the boy’s gaze.

Kurt gasps, sudden and unstoppable, bringing his hands to his own chest as if seeking protection. The light is brightly confusing and he has a cocktail in his system, but no matter how many wigs, skirts or pounds of make-up he puts in his face, there’s no doubt that those downturned, green eyes belong to Sebastian Smythe.

“Well, look who’s been enchanted,” Kiki sing-songs next to him.

Kurt breathes in hard, notices for the first time how his hands have tightened around the edge of the table. Sebastian’s looking straight at him, all of his movements have stopped and Kurt feels ashamed, as if somehow he’s to blame for discovering Sebastian’s secret. He doesn’t know what to do or how he’s supposed to feel about that, but he’s suddenly spared the effort of thinking about it when Sebastian breaks their eye contact and stalks away, pulling his skirt up so he can walk away with the most ungraceful steps anyone has ever taken in a pair of pumps. Once he’s out of sight, Kurt breathes in, and then, suddenly laughs. He finds himself snorting, not being able to hold back the sounds.

“Oh my God,” he murmurs, covering his mouth with both hands as his shoulders shake.

“Sweetie, are you–”

“Kurt, hey–”

“What the h–”

Kurt speaks over his three companions, shaking away his laughter but not his smile as he explains, “I knew him in high school and he was so awful to me… so awful.” Suddenly, he snaps, “Used to tell me that my clothes were girly and those comments on the pride parade and oh my God, I should slap him all the way from here back to Ohio for being such an asshole.”

Kiki laughs next to him, short and sudden. “Sounds like our bratty Sebastian.”

Kurt snorts, and then he’s laughing again, unstoppably. He’s not even thinking about what he’s going to do with this brand new information, instead letting himself feel the giddiness of having seen Sebastian in a silky, body-shaping corset and a skirt skulking around in heels.

“Kurt, do you want to go?” Elliott asks, pulling him back into reality with a warm hand on top of his own.

“Oh, not on account of that,” Kiki interrupts. “Let me get you some more drinks, and I’ll make sure there’s no confrontations… Unless you want one?”

“God no,” Kurt answers. “I’ll be happy if I never have to see Sebastian Smythe ever again.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Kiki tells him, standing up from her chair and leaning down to press a surprising small kiss to Kurt’s temple. “Passion like that, maybe you should reconsider that thought.”

Kurt laughs the comment away, and it isn’t until he’s walking outside of  _Pompadour’s_ with Elliott and Dani that he thinks about it again. He’s regaled both of them with his back story with Sebastian, from meeting him to the slushy incident to the awkward apology on the Lima Bean, even including the fact that Sebastian had a front row seat to Kurt’s proposal, having been leader of the Warblers still.

As they’re walking unsteadily, Dani drunker than she says she is and Elliott more tired than anything, Kurt thinks back to Sebastian’s figure clad in green and black fabric. He’s surprised by the strength of feeling that hits him, a strange kind of ache somewhere on his chest, constricting in a way he doesn’t understand. He can’t hold onto the idea that Sebastian has been harboring a secret love for dragging anymore than he can hold onto the idea of him in an actual dress. Kiki had said something about his father, after all, and Kurt finds himself feeling more curious than anything. There’s frustration, too, of course, because he wants to throw back in Sebastian’s face every single effeminophobic comment he ever made back in Ohio. On the other hand, it doesn’t feel worth it now, when that part of their past feels so far away.

Kurt thinks about what Blaine and Rachel will say when he tells them, when he describes the gorgeous shape of Sebastian’s collarbones in between the cleavage of a corset and the tightness of a choker. He wonders if that’s something he wants to do, bring him back into their lives fully and completely, so the mockery that is to follow can be shared among them. It feels… _wrong,_ somehow. It’s Sebastian’s secret, after all, and Kurt doesn’t think his pettiness is enough to reveal this particular kind of hidden life. Just like he never ousted David Karofsky, he doesn’t think he can bring himself to tell on Sebastian. He guesses, then, that he should just laugh and forget.


	2. Chapter 2

On his first night at _Pompadour’s,_ Shawna Flowers, a seven feet tall column of muscle in bright orange fabric, shoved him inside a changing room and with a deep, rich voice, told him to choose his poison and make sure that his pretty boy face was properly made up. Sebastian, at this point, was still wondering what the hell had possessed him to take a job as a waiter in drag, but he’d already given his yes and he wasn’t about to back out now.

Now, when it came to choosing his so called _poison,_ he was honestly confused. He knew nothing about girl clothes, or make-up or, good God, high heels. Still, after being carelessly shoved into the small room filled with frilly fabric that they called _the beauty parlor_ , he could do nothing but do his best at this whole dragging business. He was nothing if not determined, of course, and so a few minutes later, he found himself with his hands full of a black, long, full skirt, a long-sleeved tight black t-shirt with a hint of cleavage and a pair of not too high black pumps. It was the less scandalous he could do, all things considered.

“Somber,” a voice said suddenly behind him. Sebastian flinched, as if he had been discovered doing something forbidden and embarrassing. “A little bit boring if you ask me, sweetheart. Do you really want to look like Morticia Adams? So much black does nothing for your gorgeous complexion.”

Sebastian turned around with a second flinch, only to find a tall, muscled, middle-aged man in a tight red ensemble that once would have been the protagonist of Sebastian’s nightmares. He was standing on what had to be the highest heels in the universe and holding a blonde wig between pink nailed hands, looking at him appraisingly, probably a little amused. Sebastian looked at him with determination, scowling just a bit. The man said nothing, and Sebastian held his gaze, as if he could somehow win the internal battle within himself by standing up to this unknown person before him. Despite his would be menacing look, the man just laughed quietly, and with a sudden kind smile, offered him a hand.

“Well don’t look so angry. I’m Kiki.”

Sebastian snorted. “ _Kiki,_ right.”

The kind smile that had appeared turned suddenly serious, and as Kiki took a few steps forward, Sebastian found himself facing an accusing finger and way too many pounds of muscle.

“Now you listen to me, little brat,” Kiki said, his tone severe and not leaving room to intervene. “I don’t know why you’re here or what you think you’re doing, but if you speak to me or to any of the girls with that tone again, I’ll rip you a new butthole for you to shove your judgmental smirk in, you hear me?”

Sebastian swallowed visibly, and immediately deflated from his defying stance. Any other day he may have gone into his most reprehensible behavior, but there was something in Kiki’s whole body language that screamed that no one would put up with his nonsense in this place. He didn’t have to say anything, though, before Kiki softened his – _her,_ he corrected himself – own posture, her shoulders falling down and her whole body moving back, immediately freeing Sebastian from her imposing self.

“Now that we cleared that up, have you ever even worn any make-up?” she asked.

Sebastian sighed, and looking away with a shrug, confessed, “No.” He left it at that, not wanting to confess that the idea of girl clothes had been completely foreign to him up until today, and still mostly embarrassing. The skirt still in his hands made him feel weak, and he hadn’t even put it on.

“Right,” Kiki said, and Sebastian saw the way her body and face moved, this time in the most resolute way possible. Her features were terribly expressive, and as she set the wig she was still holding on her head, Sebastian couldn’t help but think that there was something stupendously charming about her, even if his initial impression had been of tackiness.

“Let’s see now,” Kiki continued, “you sit down over there and let Kiki work her magic.” She pointed at a classic dresser full of products Sebastian couldn’t even begin to wrap his head around, and Sebastian sighed before following her orders grudgingly and walking towards the dresser with heavy steps, like a child being forced to take an unwanted bath. “And don’t pout,” Kiki scolded.

As Sebastian sat down, Kiki went to the racks of clothes and spent a minute inspecting them while proffering _ohhs_ and _ahhs_ and _no, this won’t do_ before finding her way to Sebastian with a piece of dark green fabric that she shoved into his arms with a strong _this’ll do much better than that black thing, sweetie._

“Most girls bring their own clothes most of the time,” Kiki explained. “No need for you to limit your choices, you see.”

Then, Sebastian allowed himself to be prodded and painted with different utensils. He chose not to think about it, and to simply let Kiki do whatever it was she had to do. He had surrendered to the process, and was slowly allowing himself to get back into his stubborn set of mind, the one that had gotten him here in the first place.

“So, are you going to tell me what you’re doing here, little boy?” Kiki wondered after a while.

Sebastian was happy that he had to keep his eyes closed for Kiki to work on his face, so he didn’t have to look at her when he said, “Look, no offence, but that’s none of your fucking business, ok? Also, there’s nothing _little_ about me.”

Kiki chuckled, the sound rich and full and close to Sebastian’s face, so he could feel the air in it. “I think I’m going to adore you,” she said. “Do you have a name?”

“It’s Sebastian.”

“How properly bratty.”

Kiki worked for a few more seconds in silence, and then brought conversation back with, “How old are you exactly? There’s no way you’re twenty-one.”

“Ruby said she’d kick me from here all the way to a cell herself if she caught me drinking,” was his answer, his face twisting in proper indignation when Kiki laughed.

Sebastian thought back to the day he’d walked into _Pompadour’s_ , a stubborn set to his shoulders and a clear idea in his head. Ruby, a short, thin man who had refused to give his real name but who had introduced himself as the owner, had nearly laughed at him the moment he’d seen him. He’d questioned his motives, spotting quickly that Sebastian had never even thought before about skirts and heels, but Sebastian had refused to give them and had simply gone as close to begging as he would allow himself so he could get a job at this place. Ruby had heard his pleas, but not without giving him a few playing rules beforehand.

Later, Sebastian had wondered about him probably not being the only minor that would be under Ruby’s care, and he’d briefly asked himself if Ruby wanted to create a safe haven for little scared boys who liked girl clothes.

Sebastian’s own reasons, which he had stubbornly refused to surrender to anyone who’d asked, were still a little cloudy to even himself. Father had said that he needed to get a job, that if he was expected to pay for studies in such a flimsy subject as _dancing_ then Sebastian needed to at least find another area of his life where he could be responsible and learn how to become a proper man. Sebastian had seen red, and had decided to pick the job most likely to make his father throw a fit.

Father, of course, had never been outright against Sebastian’s homosexuality. He wasn’t the kind of man who would call it wrong, but he was certainly the kind of man who expected discretion when it came to the matter. Then again, he expected discretion in just about anything that might imply that the Smythes were something other than a perfectly educated, classy family. Sebastian had hated the concept of faked perfection all his life, and had perhaps taken exaggerated measures when it came to opposing his father’s necessity for it. Father had called it attention seeking, and perhaps he had been right and everything about Sebastian’s behavior was nothing more than a giant request to be loved for who he was, and not for who he was supposed to be.

“Darling, snap out of it and get dressed. Let’s see how it all looks on you,” Kiki said after a minute, making Sebastian snap out of his own trip down memory lane. Kiki seemed to be finished with his face, and she’d also put a wig on Sebastian’s head, something dark red that he could now see only through the corners of his eyes.

He grumbled his way up from the chair and made a show of shedding his clothes and sliding himself into the strapless green top Kiki had given him and the full skirt, looking at the pumps like the offensive things they were before stepping inside as well. He felt anything but graceful during the whole process, awkward in a way he hadn’t been since he’d started taking dance lessons when he was five years old.

“Oh sweetie,” Kiki said, looking at him appraisingly, “let’s give you a couple of weeks and you’ll be wearing silky underwear and tights under those skirts.”

Sebastian grunted his displeasure, but still turned towards the mirror when Kiki indicated that he do so. He turned his head to the side, examining the effect of make-up, wig and clothes. He wasn’t sure what he expected to see, but what he did see caught him by surprise. He guessed he’d hoped for a different person to be looking back at him, someone he wouldn’t recognize, some weird persona that he could put on and shed as he saw fit. That wasn’t the case, though; the person in the mirror was as much himself as he’d been while wearing jeans and a polo shirt, the same face he’d seen every day of his life with different shades of color, but most definitely Sebastian Smythe through and through. He wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing.

“What do you think?” Kiki wondered.

Sebastian just shrugged, not having the strength to explain what was going through his head, and instead turned to Kiki and asked, “Can I ask for a favor? Can you take a picture?”

Kiki hummed in affirmation, taking the cell phone Sebastian offered. “Kinky,” she said. “For the boyfriend?”

“For my father.”

“Oh, sweetie.” That’s all Kiki said before snapping a couple of quick pictures, and then snapping one more after telling Sebastian to _Jesus, honey, don’t look like you’re going to your funeral._

Once they were done, Kiki pressed a kiss to Sebastian’s cheek, even if she had to pull him down to her height so she could do so properly. When Sebastian murmured a quiet _thank you_ her way, she squeezed his hand, and then ushered him to his first night as a _Pompadour’s_ waitress.

 

* * *

 

“So, I’ve been thinking, maybe we could go to the pride parade this year,” Kurt says. He’s not looking at Blaine, instead focusing on the simple task of drying the wet dishes and putting them up on the cupboard. He mentions the idea conversationally, and when Blaine only answers with a non-committal humming sound, Kurt keeps talking. “I didn’t go last year because I thought it was so tacky, but, I don’t know.” He shrugs, hoping that that’s enough explanation. “It could be nice to party and walk around and see all the colors.”

Blaine still says nothing, and Kurt doesn’t push the issue, instead keeping up his work as he listens to Blaine putting a few things back in the fridge and throwing away empty soda bottles and such. They’d had a couple of Blaine’s friends over for dinner, both of them NYADA students, and one of them completely in love with Blaine and not very subtle about it, or about what exactly he thought of Kurt. His name is Blair, and if Kurt had still been in high school, he would have probably thrown a fit over his obvious feelings, and over Blaine so very obviously lapping up the attention. He’s mostly okay with it now, has learned that Blaine loves the adoration, but that most of the time it doesn’t really mean anything.

“So, what do you think?” he wonders after a while, once he’s already finished with the dishes. He turns around as he asks, leaning back against the counter and watching Blaine crush the last empty bottle of Coke to drop in the garbage.

“Um?” Blaine murmurs, not looking up at him.

“The parade?”

Blaine scrunches his nose, his face contorting in that displeased expression of his that shows the complete range of his emotions, from mildly annoyed to angry as hell. “I don’t know, Kurt, it’s so showy. It’s not really our thing, is it? And anyway, it’s months away.”

Kurt crosses his arms over his chest, stays silent as Blaine chuckles quietly and walks to him to kiss his cheek softly. He seems to have closed the conversation, and Kurt’s left wondering when something not being Blaine’s thing became it not being _their_ thing. He sighs, lets his arms fall back down at his sides and follows Blaine quietly into the living-room.

“Well, I want to go,” he says, flopping down into the sofa next to Blaine before he can turn on the television. “It’s alright if you don’t want to.”

Blaine hums, his mouth opening and closing like that of a fish before it settles into a tight line. “Don’t you think it’s too much? After what happened to you and everything, Kurt?” He reaches out, touches Kurt’s knee in something akin to preoccupation, and Kurt softens, presses his own hand over Blaine’s.

“Maybe that’s a bit why, though. I mean, I survived high school, the slushies and the looks, and then the bashing, and I just… I don’t know, I guess I just feel like celebrating, like, like–”

“Flaunting it?”

“Well, yes,” Kurt answers, suddenly determined. He didn’t think it was such a big deal, but exposing his reasons suddenly makes it so; going to the parade feels a hundred times more important now than it did a second ago. “I know you don’t like that kind of thing, it’s alright if–”

“So you’re going alone?” Blaine interrupts, his hand squeezing where it’s touching Kurt’s knee, as if worried.

“Elliott and Dani are going.”

“ _Ah,_ of course, _Elliott_ and Dani,” Blaine says, his mouth twisting in an ugly gesture and his hand almost immediately escaping from its place between Kurt’s knee and palm. Kurt feels bereft all of sudden, like that hand was something that he wasn’t supposed to lose.

When Kurt speaks next, though, what comes is filled with outrage and harshness, like an unstoppable whipping reaction to Blaine’s derisive tone. “Yes, Elliott and Dani, what’s wrong with that?”

“No, nothing, Dani’s fine, they’re fine,” Blaine answers immediately, sharp and sudden. “You just never said anything about this until you met them.”

Kurt shrugs. “Are you going to start with this again, Blaine? I thought you liked my friends.” He uses Blaine’s words against him, throws his clear lie in his face with a stubborn tone. He won’t accept any explanation about inadequacy or insecurity this time either; he’s tired of Blaine giving Elliott the side eye while his own friends seem more than happy to nearly grope him in front of Kurt.

Blaine stands up, moves a couple of steps away with a dramatic little turn, distancing himself from Kurt and from their discussion in that way that Kurt has already seen from him a million times. There was a time when Kurt knew Blaine’s smile better than he knew his fighting stances, but now more than ever that time seems like something far away, something from a dream of youth, a fairy tale he’d made Blaine the lead of. He hates that he can feel no trace of the kind of happiness he’d felt when Blaine had turned to him and confessed his feelings back in junior year, and wonders when exactly this decline began. He wants to blame Blaine’s cheating that one time, his instinct demands that he do so, but he’s also somehow sure that it had began long before.

“I like your friends,” Blaine states finally. “It’s just that your _friends_ seem to like you a little bit too much.”

Kurt rolls his eyes so hard that his head moves with him. He imagines that it’s almost comical how exaggerated the gesture is, but it’s all he can do when Blaine insists on bringing up this thing over and over again, like an interminable arguing loop. “Oh my God, Blaine, Elliott isn’t after me, how many times do I have to tell you this? I feel like we keep going over this at least once a week.”

“And doesn’t that tell you anything, Kurt? Maybe it’s because–”

“No, no, you know what? I’m not listening to this again, you psycho,” Kurt interrupts, getting up and moving towards Blaine purposefully. He fills his space, not because he wants him to feel menaced but because he wants to be close, wants this discussion to be personal, clear and the last one they have on the subject. “Look, Blaine, even if Elliott liked me, _which he doesn’t,_ what does it matter? You trust me, don’t you?”

“Well, I don’t know Kurt, you don’t have the best track record.”

At that comment, Kurt’s vision flashes red. He knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that this is Blaine lashing out with whatever hurtful thing he can come up with, but there’s only so much Kurt’s willing to put up with at this point. “Fuck you,” he seethes, and this time he’s the one to retreat a couple of steps back and put distance between the two of them.

Blaine seems to relent immediately, only noticing what he’s said after it’s already out there, like an undeserved condemnation.

“Kurt, I–”

“No, no,” Kurt interrupts, “you don’t get to apologize for that, if that’s what you really think, but really, Blaine, fucking really? You cheated on me, you _cheated,_ and I forgave you even though you refuse to talk about it–”

“That’s not fair, Kurt!”

Kurt rolls on, speaking over him now. His face is probably red and his finger is in the air, unconsciously accusing in that way he always gets when his rage is too much to stay in his body. “And Blair! Oh my God, that tiny blond thing hanging from your every word and drooling over you as if I wasn’t there! But do I call you on it? No! I think to myself, _of course Blaine likes the attention, nothing wrong with that._ And you have the gall of accusing me of whatever’s going on in your head because I actually have a good friend? I’m sorry Blaine, but I’m not putting up with that, not this time. I’m done.”

Kurt quiets down after that, lets his hands fall limply at his sides even if his breathing is ragged, stressed and too fast, making his chest move up and down harshly.

“You’re - You’re done?” Blaine wonders raggedly, his voice weak. “What does that mean?”

Kurt doubts himself, opens his mouth several times before he can find it in himself to answer. “I don’t know. I don’t know, Blaine.”

“Ku–”

“I can’t be here right now,” Kurt states, feels the air leave his body sharply as he lets the words fly free. “I think I’m going to go.”

The moment the words are out, he turns around slowly, the sound of his shoes scraping the floor too loud in his ears. He walks towards the door of the loft purposefully, somehow feeling like Blaine’s words are far away, galaxies away, even if the sound of his own steps feels deafening in his ears. He walks, and then he keeps walking, and he doesn’t stop until he’s a block away from the loft. He stops then and leans on a wall, breathing in the cold night air in quick, nervous gasps, trying to calm himself down even while feeling unfocused. Blaine’s not following, and Kurt doesn’t know if he’s disappointed or glad.

He brings his hand up to his own chest, feels his own heart beating under it, hard and fast, as if trying to travel up his throat and escape. He doesn’t know what he’s just done, but he’s positively sure that there’s no going back.


	3. Chapter 3

Elliott’s wearing a cape. Kurt’s positively sure that there are more important things that should be going through his head right now, but Elliott’s wearing a bright silver cape that matches the rest of his bright silver outfit and honestly, Kurt’s really glad they’re friends.

“Are you going to tell me what the hell is up with you, or are you just going to camp out in my couch until the end of time?” Elliott asks him, leaning close so Kurt can hear him over the pounding music.

They’re back at _Pompadour’s_ , the first time Kurt’s stepped inside the place after that other night, over a month ago. Truth be told, he’s only here because he’s spent two full days considering whether mating with Elliott’s couch might be a valid career choice, and at some point between the silver cape and Elliott bodily pulling him up from the couch he’d decided that perhaps going out wasn’t such a bad idea. Had he known they were going to end up here, he probably would have said no. Then again, Elliott’s got the biggest crush in the universe on one of the waitresses, so he should have been somewhat suspicious when the silver outfit had first made an appearance.

By the looks of it, they have some kind of _Grease_ like theme going on tonight, with everyone wearing outfits that make Kurt think of singing Summer Nights with the girls back at McKinley. He’s painfully surprised by the nostalgia hitting him somewhere up in his chest; McKinley doesn’t hold the fondest memories for him, after all, but at least back there he knew who he was and what he wanted. He feels lost, and he doesn’t think the emotion comes from the past two days spent in Elliott’s apartment, hiding away from the ugly words he threw at Blaine the other night. Maybe he’s been lost for a while, trapped between Rachel and Santana’s petty fights and inconsistent dreams, scared of going too far with Adam, so convinced that saying _yes_ to Blaine in the least intimate proposal of the world was what he really wanted.

“So that’s a no, then?” Elliott prods after Kurt stays silent.

Kurt blinks, looks at him and at the way his eyes shine under their bright eye shadow. “Can we talk tomorrow?” he requests. He doesn’t think he can bear breaking down here, where everything is bright and colorful and filled with music.

“Over brunch?”

“ _Ooh_ , food and mimosas?”

Elliott smiles, patting Kurt’s hand over the table softly. “It’s a date.”

Kurt returns the smile to the best of his abilities, and in his best effort to move the conversation away from the topic he’s desperate not to think about, he asks, “So, are you going to go talk to her, or are you going to chicken out again?”

Elliott scoffs, and looking away, mumbles, “Maybe a little later.”

Kurt lets him get away with it, and doesn’t push the issue any further. It never ceases to surprise him how despite the outfits and the levelheadedness he approaches life with, Elliott is actually quite shy when it comes to new people. Once they’d become friends, he’d confessed how incredibly intimidated he’d been the first time he’d met him. Kurt watches him nursing his drink absentmindedly, and then lets his eyes wander until he finds Venus, Elliott’s crush, serving some drinks a few tables away. She’d been dancing earlier, putting a bit of a show even, and Elliott had nearly drooled on the soda he’d been getting for Kurt.

“Are you looking for your friend?” Elliott wonders.

Kurt frowns, and it takes him a second before it clicks that Elliott is talking about the one and only Sebastian Smythe. “Hardly a friend,” he answers.

“Aren’t you curious, though? You made him sound like the preppiest rich boy in town, not like a secret drag queen.”

“Yes, well, he’s mostly just the biggest jerk in the universe the way I remember him, so who knows? Maybe’s he’s got RuPaul posters hanging in his room or something.”

Kurt wants to be annoyed, because he honestly doesn’t know what else to feel when it comes to Sebastian, but he can’t stop himself from getting a secret hilarious thrill out of the idea of him in a dress. He’d barely thought about him lately, had even wondered if the boy he’d seen had truly been Sebastian or just some mirage like hallucination brought on by his _Alien Orgasm_. He would have thought that to be the case, if only Sebastian hadn’t locked eyes with him so clearly, his expression disgruntled even from the distance Kurt had been looking from.

He thinks he may have secretly been looking for him tonight, curious even if he chooses to deny that he is. It’s not even that he wants to know why Sebastian is working here in heels and a corset; it’s more of a morbid kind of constriction brought on by an unwelcome presence from his past coming back to him in such a strange shape. He feels it would have been easier to walk up to Sebastian and pettily insult his stupid face if he’d been wearing jeans and a polo shirt. The whole bit with the dress has thrown him for a loop, though, and he hates that it makes him reconsider his pre-conceived idea of Sebastian; he would have been happier thinking about him as the superficial asshole he’d been back in Ohio, regrets notwithstanding.

It’s almost two hours later, when Kurt’s busy listening to Dani speak about her newest song, that he spots Sebastian under a red neon light, almost too far away for his face to be something other than a blur under a wig. He’s moving fast too, going from one table to another and canting his hips in a way that Kurt remembers so well that it almost makes him smile.

“He’s pretty, you know? Well, for a boy,” Dani says next to him, wrinkling her nose as she speaks. She’s leaning on the barstool, the drinks she just ordered for them both neatly aligned in front of her, but still untouched. Kurt quite likes having friends that are already twenty-one and can order pretty cocktails for him, but he’s not feeling much like drinking tonight, if only because he can’t be sure he won’t end up crying.

Kurt doesn’t answer her, just shrugging. “Keep telling me about that song of yours,” he requests instead.

Dani gives him a pointed and unimpressed look, but lets it go and instead pushes a drink his way and takes a sip of her own before going back to the conversation they were having before, about her latest song. She’d gotten here not too long ago, summoned by Elliott and ready to party and _get you out of that funk, Kurt, it makes you so boring._ She’d also sacrificed dinner with a couple of friends yesterday to stay in Elliott’s couch with him, watching some mindless comedy and doing her best effort at distracting him, and Kurt couldn’t be more grateful for the company.

The ambush, or so Kurt chooses to call it in his head, happens when he’s alone, of course. Elliott’s dancing, Dani’s in the bathroom and Kiki, who’d spent a long while chatting with them, has gone back to work. Kurt’s standing by the barstool, nursing a soda and focusing on the low beat of the music around him, when he sees Sebastian Smythe striding towards him in long, purposeful steps. Watching him walk his way and thinking that he should feel apprehension or annoyance, Kurt’s surprised that the only thought he seems to be able to register is _legs._ Lean, long legs, strong and toned and making Kurt wonder how the part he’s not seeing, possibly succulent thighs hidden under a stretchy tubular skirt, might look. When Sebastian finally reaches him and stands close enough to be uncomfortable, Kurt’s already registered the _Grease_ like outfit of t-shirt, skirt and flats, which actually seems to fit Sebastian down to a t. Kurt thinks he’d probably make a good Rizzo, and he’s about to smile at the idea when Sebastian finally speaks, and says:

“Alright, let’s do this already.”

Kurt blinks up, locks eyes with him. “What?”

Sebastian sneers, crossing his arms over his chest in an overprotective gesture. “Go ahead, princess, do your worst. _Haha, Sebastian, you’re wearing a skirt and a terrible wig and you were such an asshole about my clothes and my… everything_. You should rip me a new one, I deserve it anyway.”

Kurt looks at him, bewildered and with his mouth hanging open a bit. Sebastian manages to look nervous, defiant, cocky and yet self-deprecating all at the same time, even while keeping his lips settled on a smirk Kurt wishes he wasn’t so familiar with. Kurt feels like punching him, honestly.

“Seriously?” Kurt asks, still dumbfounded. “You tell me to insult you for wearing a skirt but _still_ call me princess, and you act as if I’ve been thinking about this confrontation for proper ways to insult you?” He stops to take a deep breath, and then continues, this time with a sneer on his face. “Screw you, Sebastian, I don’t care what you’re wearing, you’re an asshole whether you’re in a skirt or a pair of jeans, and I honestly don’t have time for your bullshit.”

After he’s done – both with his speech and with Sebastian – Kurt turns just enough to make it clear that he’s done with this so called confrontation. For a glorious quiet moment, he thinks Sebastian has caught on, but the moment Kurt spies him plunking down on a barstool next to him, he sighs, because he should have known better.

“Oh my God, you’re a plague,” Kurt whines. “Can’t you just… be somewhere else?”

“Honestly, Kurt, I’m a little disappointed,” is what Sebastian says. His arms are still crossed over his chest, and he’s looking a little pouty. “If I can’t count on you for creative insults I don’t know how I’m supposed to keep going with my life. Are you sure you don’t want to say anything? I mean, there won’t be a better opportunity,” and as he says this, he opens his arms and motions towards himself, clearly bracketing his body and his outfit and yes, his legs still look stupidly gorgeous tracing their way out of his skirt.

Kurt scoffs, looks away from Sebastian’s legs and into his eyes, choosing to point down at his flat shoes. “At least you can walk in that, instead of stumbling around like an awkward baby giraffe like the other day.”

“Heels are… challenging.”

That’s all it takes to set Kurt off. He barks out a laugh and then finds himself not able to stop. He shakes with it, sound escaping him in an almost hysterical way, laughter climbing up his throat. Not so surprisingly, when he looks at Sebastian, he’s laughing as well. Of course Sebastian would get the joke of the both of them in this situation.

“Damn, prin– _Kurt,_ this is fucked up.”

Kurt nods, agreeing silently because after his bout of laughter words seem to be failing him. He scrunches his nose and looks at him with mirth in his eyes. Sebastian may not be his favorite person in the world, but at least he’s a good distraction.

“It’s sort of reassuring that you’re still the same,” Kurt states, shrugging. A few months ago he wouldn’t have made any concession, but he’s feeling particularly vulnerable today, and any case, he doesn’t think he has it in him to be mean to Sebastian about this particular subject. Whether Sebastian is a convinced drag queen or doing this for some other reason, Kurt knows too much about being harassed for being different.

“Jeff says I’m much nicer these days, you know?”

Kurt scoffs. “Jeff thinks Hitler is nice.”

Sebastian doesn’t answer, instead smiling just a bit, like Kurt’s words are a familiar thought. The gesture looks genuine, more than any other he’s ever seen from Sebastian, and it makes Kurt uncomfortable in that I-may-have-to-reconsider-what-I-think-of-you kind of way. He thinks he would be much happier not having to reconsider Sebastian Smythe at all.

“I would have mocked you, you know?” Is what Sebastian says next. Some other person may have looked down at the confession, but Sebastian looks straight at him, as if wanting to make sure that Kurt feels his sincerity. “I would have brought friends, even.”

“Yes, well, thank whoever you want to thank that I’m better than that. Mind you, I was tempted, but…” he shrugs, non-committal. “Besides, it’s not something anyone should be mocked about.”

“Fashion has no gender, huh?”

“I once wore a corset to school.”

Sebastian lifts both eyebrows at that, but keeps looking straight at him like he’s been doing all this time. “In Cowtown, Ohio? Do you have a death wish?”

Kurt shrugs. “I was a walking target anyway, might as well be a fashionable one.”

Sebastian doesn’t say anything to that, and for a second, Kurt feels misplaced, having made more of a confession than he meant to with his last statement. He coughs, not really knowing what to say next, and when Sebastian looks down and away while crossing one leg over the other, Kurt follows the full movement. His eyes follow the path of Sebastian’s leg, from his bent knee all the way to his foot, now half shoeless since his flat has escaped his heel and dangles from his toes, mindless. His ankle is turned upwards, as if unconsciously trying to stop the shoe from completely falling away, and Kurt feels like he’s seeing him naked for some reason. He blushes, and tears his eyes away.

There’s still a beat of silence, and Kurt fills the awkwardness of the moment by finally taking a sip of his untouched drink. Busy figuring out what to say or do, Kurt nearly misses it when Sebastian looks back at him and murmurs:

 “Thank you.”

Kurt turns, finds Sebastian’s green stare and wonders, “What for?”

“Being a better person than I am.”

Kurt scoffs, feels the immediate pull of saying something along the lines of _wouldn’t be too hard, anyway,_ but stops himself before he says anything and just shrugs, as if it’s not important. If being friends with Elliott and Dani has taught him anything, it’s that life isn’t high school, and that petty arguments and overdramatic approaches to conversations don’t need to be a near constant in life.

Sebastian doesn’t say anything else, and before their stilted, uncomfortable conversation can go on, Kiki appears right behind Sebastian, and patting his hair affectionately, says, “Come on cupcake, no more dramatic reunions for you, get your bubble butt back to work.”

Sebastian rolls his eyes at Kurt, and as he stands up and leaves, he wiggles his fingers in a half-hearted wave goodbye. Kurt, without a second thought, waves back.

“Ok there, sweetie?” Kiki wonders once Sebastian’s gone.

Kurt nods, smiling, suddenly and for no reason feeling lighter than he has all night.

“Good, now go find your friends, they want you to dance, and they won’t take no for an answer.”

“Thanks, Kiki.”

With that, Kiki leaves, and Kurt scans the crowd only to find Dani already on the nearly empty dance floor, arms stretched towards him. Kurt smiles, and with his mind free of thought, he goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will admit that this is a weird experiment of a story... but I'm really enjoy it, anyway.


End file.
